


Bear Away the Shades of Night

by yet_intrepid



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cultural Differences, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Touch, Languages and Linguistics, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lady on the dais, pale and golden-haired, catches Tauriel’s eye then. And if Tauriel had found the people of Rohan’s plains to be wary, she finds that spirit tenfold in the lady’s eyes. Yet with the caution, courage. And pride, too. Fierce pride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bear Away the Shades of Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ femslashrevolution](http://femslashrevolution.tumblr.com/post/109760211309/tolkien-tauriel-eowyn-hospitality) prompt "Tauriel/Éowyn, hospitality."

The Rohirrim are a wary people, Tauriel learns. Not hostile, but guarded—bred on superstition from the cradle and raised almost as near to enemies as to horses. She enters their lands from the north, bearing word from Thranduil to Saruman, and she sees them staring from just outside the villages. Her ears catch murmurs of a language she does not know, rich as the soil and rolling as the hills.

She imagines they are judging her horsemanship. It is fair enough—there is little time to perfect such a skill in a land of dense trees, and she does not begrudge them their talents, much less their caution.

Still, sometimes she must approach to them, for her stores were gathered hastily and she had expected more success in hunting. She sorts through her pack for anything that can be traded, and finds there a skin of wine. It is small, but fine, and good for both injury and illness.

Leaving most of her arms with her horse, she approaches the nearest village on foot. But before she can speak, the residents form a hedge across the road, dour-faced and armed. Tauriel understands.

It takes two days and five villages before she finds someone to treat with her. Only one child there speaks Westron well. She hands over the wine, explaining its curative power as best she can, in exchange for stores—dried meat, some vegetables, bread. A ritual Sindarin blessing nearly falls from her tongue, but she replaces it with simple thanks.

When she turns to go, the child reaches for her arm.

“Wait,” he says. “You are from the North. Another land.”

“Yes,” she says.

“Are you going to the Golden Hall?” he asks.

“I am but passing through,” she answers.

“You should pay your respects to Théoden King,” he tells her. “It is right.”

“So it is,” she says. “Thank you.”

She takes her leave and changes her path. Thranduil gave her no orders to visit the King Théoden, said no word on how she was to relate to the Rohirrim at all. But she is acting as diplomat now, not as captain of the guard, and it is as the boy said: this is right.

That night she crosses the Entwash; in the morning, she is turned more south than west. In a matter of days, Edoras is rising above her, the golden roof of Meduseld glinting as the sun streaks through wind-rushed clouds.

At the stairs of the hall she dismounts. The man who takes her horse speaks Westron, if uneasily, and tells her he’ll care for him well. She thanks him, again stopping the Sindarin blessing in her throat, and makes her way to the great doors.

They open before her and the guard strides out, eyeing her. Their chief is a broad man, red-haired and bearded, and he plants himself firmly before her with a hand on his sword-hilt.

“Leave your weapons, traveler,” he says. “And give me your name to tell to the king.”

It is against her better judgment when he stands so ready to do battle with her, but she unstraps her sheath from her hips. The bow and quiver follow, and the guard handles them as though they may attack of their own will.

And Tauriel looks at the eyes of the guards, sees the strain of mortality there. Sees the way each day wears them. She sees the chiseled-off hope in the hardening lines of their faces, and she does not begrudge them their caution.

“My name is Tauriel,” she tells them. “I am the captain of the guard in King Thranduil’s realm to the north.”

The red-haired guard nods and leads his men back into the hall, leaving two behind to attend her. She smiles at them; they manage to nod—she has not put them at ease. Cannot, perhaps.

The doors open again and the guards lead her in. The hall is dark, the fire too dim, the windows too few. It feels more close than any cave she has dwelt in. Around her, the servants are gathering, and the guards. To the dais come lords and a lady. All is uneasy shifting, like hunters in hiding. Or, Tauriel thinks, like the hunted.

The king does not move. He is rigid, gripping the arms of his chair. And the man who crouches beside him—he moves, but not like the rest of the court. He is not restless, awaiting.

He is the awaited. If the court is an animal cornered, this is the predator: a snake, dripping venom. Tauriel knows it before he has opened his mouth.

He arises, placing his ear before the lips of the king. But Tauriel has the hearing of her kind. She knows nothing is said.

“In the name of Théoden King,” says the man, “I demand of you: speak! What are you, and why have you crossed into the Mark?”

Tauriel bows, but she looks at the king, not his spokesman. “Lord King,” she says, “I am Tauriel. I am an elf of the Northern Woods, captain of King Thranduil’s guard.”

“And what business has King Thranduil with Rohan?” says one of the lords from the dais. The other reaches a hand to his shoulder, holding him still.

“None, my lord,” she answers. “I seek merely to extend greeting and pay my respects as I travel bearing word to the wizard Saruman.”

At that, the second of the lords stirs angrily, and it is the lady’s turn to hold him back. But the spokesman changes face at once, offering her an oily smile.

“A friend of the wizard’s is a friend of the Mark,” he says. “Lady Éowyn, if you will offer Lady Tauriel a room for the night?”

The lady on the dais, pale and golden-haired, catches Tauriel’s eye then. And if Tauriel had found the people of Rohan’s plains to be wary, she finds that spirit tenfold in the lady’s eyes. Yet with the caution, courage. And pride, too. Fierce pride.

Lady Éowyn steps downwards towards Tauriel.

Tauriel drops to her knee before them, saluting the king with a fist over her heart. “I thank you, Théoden King, for your gracious hospitality.”

“It is nothing,” says the spokesman.

Tauriel rises. She does not glance at him askance, but in her heart she doubts that all is well. Still, she allows the Lady Éowyn to lead her away.

\----

“I regret that there will be no feast for your welcome, Lady Tauriel,” Éowyn says. She opens a door, motioning Tauriel ahead of her. “The king has of late set aside the custom of meals at the high table. But food will be brought, and I will stay to play host if you wish. If you are weary, I will leave you in peace.”

Éowyn, herself, is weary. She has no desire to treat with one who goes to treat with Saruman. But she has not travel for an excuse, and so she must offer. She is the lady of the house.

“I would be honored by your company, my lady,” says the Lady Tauriel. She passes, so light on her feet as to go almost unheard. “But the title of _lady_ I cannot claim. I am a captain, only.”

Éowyn pauses at the guest room door. For she remembers the introduction given, and despite herself, despite warning thoughts of the White Wizard, she is curious. “Then—forgive me—among your people such a place is not denied to women?”

“No,” says Tauriel, and Éowyn feels keen eyes meet hers. “Is it among yours? For I have heard much of the shieldmaidens of Rohan.”

“It is not the shielding denied us,” Éowyn says. “Only the rank.” But then she bites her tongue, for to speak ill of her people before an elf would be nigh traitorous. “Here is your chamber, captain,” she says. “Excuse me, I must speak to the servants.”

And she departs. She tracks down a kitchen boy, asks for a meal for two as fine as they can quickly provide. Then she searches out a nightshirt and a warm robe, calling someone to bring water for washing and to light a fire. There should be a table, too, she thinks; there is none in the room, but when she returns between errands to check on her guest she finds that Tauriel has seated herself on the floor on the rug of furs before the new-built fire.

“Captain,” she says, “I am sorry, I am seeking a table—”

But Tauriel laughs. “Be not so troubled, my lady. I am well.”

And Éowyn finds herself laughing in echo, joining Tauriel on the floor. “Then all is well,” she says, and it is a lie, for so much is gone ill. But wellness feels closer than it has in months, in years perhaps, and when the lad comes in with water for washing, Éowyn does not mind that he looks at them strangely. Tauriel rises to rinse her hands and face, murmuring to herself in some foreign tongue, and then she holds out the bowl to Éowyn.

Éowyn has washed not long since, but she is not sure whether this is some Elvish tradition, and if it is, she has no wish to offend. As she dips her hands in the water and brings them up to her face, she hears Tauriel’s voice, its accent gentle but strange:

“ _Nen lim, medlio i dúath o dín_.”

Éowyn looks up, water dripping from her brow. If Tauriel wished to put a spell on her, she walked into its arms. “What words are those?” she asks, wary once again.

“It is a ritual for washing,” Tauriel says. “ _Clear water, bear from her the shades of night_.”

And Éowyn feels a great sorrow and relief wash over her. She hides her face in the drying-cloth, and wonders if perhaps there is good in the magic of elves, after all.

As she composes herself, there is a knock at the door—their meal has been brought. “Lady Éowyn,” says the cook, who has come herself. “You have no table! Ought I to search one out?”

Éowyn looks at Tauriel. The lightness is in her eye again, and Éowyn, turning to the cook, shakes her head.

“We will eat before the fire,” she says. “If you leave the serving-boards, we will be well accommodated.”

“Yes, my lady,” says the cook, and Éowyn is sure she leaves murmuring about the strangeness of elves. But on the floor are the serving-boards, bearing a stew of wild boar, dried apples, and barley bread with butter and honey. There is ale alongside, not the mead which would have been served in the hall, but Éowyn lifts her tankard nevertheless and offers it to Tauriel.

“ _Westu Tauriel hál_ ,” she says.

 Tauriel drinks, and then she creases her forehead and bends her tongue. “ _Westu Éowyn hál_ ,” she says, and the vowels are misshapen but the intent is clear, and suddenly they are both laughing.

“What were your words over the water?” Éowyn asks. “ _Nim lem_ —”

“ _Nen lim_ ,” Tauriel corrects, slowly. “ _Medlio i dúath o dín_.”

“ _Medlio i dúath o dín_ ,” says Éowyn, and even she can hear that she says it very badly.

“If you speak it for yourself, you say _o nin_ ,” Tauriel tells her.

Éowyn says it again, and no better. She laughs. Tauriel laughs.

“A blessing on the common tongue,” says Tauriel, “for without it we should be as two children still new to the art of speech.”

Éowyn raises her tankard again to that, and they begin their meal.

\----

“My brother and cousin are often away on the borders,” Éowyn finds herself saying, when the meal is over and the dishes cleared. She is warm with food and fire and fair company, and strange as she finds it, she is not afraid to speak of herself. “And my uncle the king, he is—troubled. With many matters.”

“So kings are wont to be,” Tauriel agrees. Yet again she looks on Éowyn keenly, as though she listens to words unvoiced. “Tell me, Éowyn, who is the man who spoke for the king when I came before the court?”

“That is Gríma Wormtongue,” Éowyn says, and she cannot keep the shudder from her tone. “The king has great love of his counsel.”

“But you have not.”

“No,” says Éowyn. She looks into the fire, for she cannot find words that suffice. Those which are true sound childish to her ears: _I hate him. He is vile. I am afraid._

Tauriel lays a hand on her shoulder, then. “Éowyn,” she says, “are you safe here?”

Éowyn starts, indignant. “I may not have a captaincy,” she says, “but I can look to myself. I can ride and wield blade as well as any rider of the Mark.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Tauriel says. “But I speak of other dangers. Ones that may not, perhaps, be faced so openly.”

Éowyn finds she cannot speak.

It is answer enough, and Tauriel draws her close. Éowyn leans her head on Tauriel’s shoulder.

“In your presence,” she murmurs, “I feel safer than I have these many years.”

“Then I am glad my path has lead me here,” Tauriel whispers in return. “Rest, Éowyn. All is well.”

For a moment, Éowyn can believe it, and she lets herself be cradled to sleep.

\----

Tauriel wakes before a dying fire. She is stretched on the rug in her travel clothes, and beside her is Éowyn, golden hair glinting in the rising sun and court-robes spread out around her.

It is strange hospitality, perhaps, and she will have to tell the tale carefully lest her people think ill of the courtesy of the Rohirrim. But Tauriel has felt welcomed—and if by one only, that one was enough.

She brushes away a strand of hair that is falling in Éowyn’s face, then rises. For Edoras is not the end of her journey, and she still has far to go.

She straightens her clothing and takes the time to redo the braids in her hair—it is best that she look well on arrival at Isengard. When she has finished, she opens the door softly and catches the attention of a serving-girl in the hall to ask for fresh water to wash. The girl speaks no Westron, but holds up a finger and returns with someone who does.

When the water is brought, Tauriel takes the bowl and sets it down. But as she opens her mouth for the blessing, she hears it spoken behind her.

“ _Nen lim, medlio i dúath o dín_.”

She turns. Éowyn, too, has risen, and she is smiling. Tauriel washes and smiles in turn.

“Thank you,” she says. “Are you rested? I thought it best not to wake you.”

Éowyn runs practiced hands through her hair, working through tangles. “Perhaps the Elves have some magic of refreshment,” she says. “My sleep was deep.”

“It is no magic,” says Tauriel. “It is peace.”

“Peace is itself a matter almost of sorcery in days such as these,” Éowyn says. “But you have risen early—is this a custom of the Elves?”

“Among some,” Tauriel says. “But I have risen because I must depart.”

Éowyn inclines her head, and Tauriel sees sorrow in her hidden glance. But she sees, too, that to such the lady Éowyn is long accustomed: to loneliness, to partings, to endurance unacknowledged. And it is this, not the sorrow itself, which pains Tauriel’s heart.

“Will you come to the stables with me?” she asks, and Éowyn nods.

\----

They gather Tauriel’s pack and her weapons. Éowyn asks after Tauriel’s stores, but Tauriel assures her that she is well-enough supplied. And departing the hall, they start for the stables, greeted by a bright sky and a strong wind.

Tauriel greets her horse in her own tongue. He is indeed well cared-for, coat shining, but he nickers to be gone. She feeds him slices of dried apple she saved from last night’s meal while Éowyn laughs at his impatience.

At last Tauriel unties the rope across the stall’s entrance and calls him out. Éowyn refastens the rope. “I will find your tack,” she says.

“I have none,” says Tauriel.

Éowyn looks at her, wondering. But they exit the stables, Tauriel’s horse following unled, and together they walk down through the city of Edoras to the gates.

“Give my regards to the king,” Tauriel says.

“I will try,” says Éowyn.

Tauriel bows her head. Éowyn’s position is a hard one, she thinks, and she wishes she could alleviate it. But she is a soldier, and she has her duties. And Éowyn, too, has hers, though they are unfairly heavy.

Éowyn clears her throat. “Captain,” she says, “I am glad you came.”

“And I, my lady,” says Tauriel. She takes both of Éowyn’s hands in hers, bowing. “But I regret that I must leave in such haste.”

“Will you visit on your return journey?” Éowyn asks.

“I cannot say,” says Tauriel. “But I hope we may meet again.”

“And I,” says Éowyn. “But on all your roads, _westu hál_.”

“ _Medlio i dúath o mín_ ,” Tauriel says, and their foreheads come together. And for a moment, the shades of night are borne away.

For a moment, all is well.

\----

The Rohirrim are a wary people, and Tauriel knows it well. But they have more than earned a right to their caution.

And for it, besides, the more precious a gift is their trust.

**Author's Note:**

> Language notes:
> 
> I'm reasonably good at Quenya, but Sindarin is new territory for me. So despite my best efforts, the construction may be a little odd. Also, I know the Elves of Mirkwood speak a variant of Sindarin that's flavored with Silvan, but honestly I've got no clue how that works, where to find Silvan resources, or if they use both. I tried researching it, but no luck.
> 
> In any case, when Tauriel leaves off "nen lim" at the end, that's the part about the water; "o dín" is "from her," "o nin" is "from me," and "o mín" is "from us." "Dúath" is a pretty versatile word that falls along the "darkness, shadow" range, but I've chosen to translate it with something closer to its etymology. Because "shades of night" is a pretty phrase, okay.
> 
> "Westu hál" is a phrase used several times in the books and I think once in the movies; it's equivalent to "hail" or "be well." Probably upon Tauriel's departure Éowyn technically should be saying "ferthu hál" which afaik is more along the lines of "fare you well," but I figured she'd stick to a phrase Tauriel was already somewhat familiar with.


End file.
